I Don't Think I Am Any Good.

And Behind Their Frail Partitions Business Women Lie And Soak, Seeing Through The Draughty Skylight Flying Clouds And Railway Smoke. Rest You There, Poor Unbelov'd Ones, Lap Your Loneliness In Heat, All Too Soon The Tiny Breakfast, Trolley-bus And Windy Street!

Hymns Are The Poetry Of The People.

Too Many People In The Modern World View Poetry As A Luxury, Not A Necessity Like Petrol. But To Me It's The Oil Of Life.

What The Londoner Sees In His Mind's Eye Is That Cluster Of Towers And Pinnacles Seen From Pentonville Hill And Outlined Against A Foggy Sunset, And The Great Arc Of Barlow's Train Shed Gaping To Devour Incoming Engines, And The Sudden Burst Of Exuberant Gothic Of The Hotel Seen From Gloomy Judd Street.

I Ought To Warn You That My Verse Is Of No Interest To People Who Can Think.